


Our Tragedy Today

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Blood, Bombs, Character Study, Cold War, Dark, Gen, Gosh IDKWTF I am doing, Guns, Human, Humans, Insanity, Mentions of a lot of countries, Nations interacting with humans, character introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's very possible he might be going insane. How else does he explain the voice that haunts him everywhere he goes?A character Introspection of America during the Cold War.





	Our Tragedy Today

**Author's Note:**

> Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up?
> 
> —William Faulkner, 1950

He first heard the voice after the atom bombs. Russia had snuck up behind him, smiling like he always was, and whispered: "That was quite a stunt you pulled on Japan, Fredka, do you mind sharing?"

_No,_ the voice came out of nowhere, but America knew it was, in a way, him. _Russia will take over the world with it. Crush him now before you lose the chance._

America thought that if he ignored the voice it would go away. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to give Russia the information anyway. But no, the voice stayed, it festered like a disease, slowly eating away at his mind. It haunted his every waking moment, kept blessed sleep away to the point he had to start user concealer to hide the bags under his eyes.

_You should check on Germany,_ The voice was telling him. _He's literally next door to Russia. Japan, too, everything you did would go to waste if Japan turns on you._

Shut up, he told himself. Russia wouldn't dare, even he wasn't crazy enough to declare another war so soon. ...Right?

_He would, remember Korea?_ the voice said. _And now Vietnam. You have to contain him, you have to use the nuclear weapons. You should have used them_ on _China, too—_

No, that would be the end of the world. When he first saw the cloud rise over Trinity, he was awed. Awed and terrified. _What have we created?_ He asked himself. _What have we brought into the world?_

_A tool of mass destruction, a tool you can use. Make Europe bow before you, Asia too. You know you can._

He stood up. The table rattled as if it were as tired as he was. He hadn't slept in, what was it, a week? Ten days? He ran a hand through his hair. There was a meeting tomorrow, and he was running out of concealer.

His cabinet was nearly empty, but that was to be expected. He would have to go on a supply run soon if he remembered to. There was still some whiskey left, thank god. (He was almost 200 years old, he would drink if he wanted to, dammit.) There was also a bottle of barbiturates that was nearly empty. He emptied a few pills into his pocket and washed it down with the alcohol. He could imagine England's fierce scowl as the whiskey burned down his throat. _You bloody idiot,_ he'd snarl, plucking the glass from his hand. _Honestly, it's a bloody miracle you survived at all..._

America laughed, but it came out as more of a choked sob. Well, what did England know? It wasn't like he actually cared, not since the Revolution.

His hands fumbled for his holster. He always had at least 4 guns on his person wherever he went, along with half a dozen knives. Just in case, the voice in his head whispered. And well, who could argue with that? The cold, sleek barrel of his Colt Python greeted him. The black surface grounded him. Anything to chase away the splotches of red that seemed to be painted under his eyelids. Better dead than red, after all. The monotony of disassembling it, cleaning it, and putting it back together was mind and time-consuming. It kept the voices away. If he fell asleep doing it, he could actually sleep for more than an hour. He could also end up with a bullet in his foot, but that wasn't much of an issue. (He healed so quickly these days, it was almost scary)

A loud rustle interrupted his thoughts. America jumped, wincing as the pieces of his Colt went flying across the room with a loud clatter. He grabbed a different gun (a Smith and Wesson, this time) and headed outside.

The sky was as tranquil as the pond beneath it. The little house wasn't as grand as his mansion in Virginia or as spacious as his apartment in New York, but it was quiet. There was a constant stream of noise from the town nearby, not too loud as to be intrusive, but enough to remind him that there were people, and they were alive. With meeting after meeting in Europe and Asia and the White House, it was easy to forget that there were ordinary people living ordinary lives.

He wondered if they were the voices in his head.

The rustle came again, and America snapped into action. He raised his gun in the direction of the sound. "Who's there?" he yelled.

_Stupid, stupid!_ The voice snarled at him. _You just told whatever commie spy that you were there! Shoot now before it's too late!_

There was a loud gasp, and feet running in the opposite direction. America didn't think, he just followed him on instinct. And suddenly he was everywhere, _the revolution the civil war WorldWaronetwoKore_ a and the woods were trenches and the trees were bodies but it felt good, oh god it felt good to not be at constant war with himself, to go along with the voice in his head. He couldn't remember why he had ever refused to, everything was so easy now. There was the woods, his gun, and the voice.

Nothing else.

A cry jerked him from his thoughts, dumping all over his thoughts like an ice-cold bucket. It was a young cry, not unlike the ones he made when he scraped his knee when he was little. In fact, exactly like that.

A kid, he realized. He's been chasing after a goddamn kid with a gun. "Hey," he said, gentler this time. "Hey, come out. I'm not going to hurt you."

The cries stopped, and there was a sniffle. It came from behind a bush just a few feet from him. How do you know if it is a kid? Or if the kid is innocent, for that matter. And the voice was back, as cruel as ever. _Just shoot._

"Promise?" a tiny voice asked.

Promise. What did promises mean these days, really? He'd promised France and England multiple times that no, he would not declare war on Russia, but they didn't believe him. He'd promised Russia that no, he would not use nuclear weapons on his satellite states, but he didn't believe him. The thing about promises was that people either put too much or too little faith in them. That was how wars started.

"Promise," he said because the kid didn't know that, right? There was a small shuffle, and a small girl emerged from the bushes. She was about 5 or 6 years old, and definitely too young to be wandering around by himself. How late was it, anyway? It could be anywhere from midnight to 5 in the morning, he couldn't tell.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Where are you from?"

The girl blinked. She had large dark brown eyes and disheveled hair to match. She was wearing a white nightgown so she must have snuck out. "Momma said I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers," she said. "Especially strangers with guns,"

Oh. Right. He lowered his hand, ignoring the voice that screamed _No you idiot, what are you doing?_ "Your momma is a smart woman, then," he said. "But I'm not going to use it on you, I swear."

He crouched down to meet her eyes. He had an old memory, cracked and dim with age, of England doing the same. He remembered how it made him see a man with a terrifying face, an empire, to just... Arthur Kirkland. Someone he could love like a brother. _But he's not your brother anymore. He'll never do that for you, not again._

It was odd, in a way. All he ever wanted was for Arthur to see him eye to eye, but now that he had surpassed him he wanted to go back. In filling his heart's greatest desires, he opened up more in places he never thought he could.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" It was a question he'd never liked as a colony; why should go to bed, when there was so much world to explore? Besides, it wasn't like he was tired or anything. "Are you lost?"

The girl blinked again, as if still wary, but then nodded slowly. "My friends told me that a ghost lived here."

A laugh bubbled in America's throat. A ghost. He knew the sound of the bullets would have attracted some attention, but as a ghost? No, he was anything but. He could see it in the way the other nations' eyes burned with hatred _but never fear or admiration, like they SHOULD_ whenever his name was so much as brought up. (He soon learned the best way to deal with it was to not care. It was easier than he thought.) He was omnipresent, he was a superpower. He was the United States of America, and he was no ghost.

"Well, I've lived here for a while, and I haven't seen any ghosts." Over 70 years, in fact. But now that he's been found he would have to move again soon. Just shoot her, you don't have the time for that. "Did your friends dare you?"

Her eyes widened.

"How did you know?" Alfred shrugged. "My friends told me something similar when I was young." Lying was easy these days, it was practically his day job. He's had a few human friends over the years, but they never lasted. And when it came to Canada, he was the reckless one, much to England's exasperation. But those didn't count; what was a few eye rolls and cries of concern against decades of, well, history? Neither of them probably even remembered it, anyway.

"Look, you should really go back home. Your parents are probably worried about you," The settlers he'd met back when he was a colony told him that all the time as if it were obvious that he had someone he could return to every day. It was a nice sentiment and was probably why he was so attached to them (which was also much to England's distaste).

"But the woods..." the girl looked around. "... it's dark," she finished.

"Are you scared?" the girl nodded and blushed, embarrassed to admit it. "Hey, it's okay. I get scared of stuff too." He held out a gloved hand. He always wore a pair of well-worn leather gloves, it helped hide the scars. You can't let Russia see your scars, you can't give him an inch of ground. "Everyone's scared of something."

"Like what?"

Nuclear Armageddon. Abandonment. _Fool. If they leave you for Russia, crush them. Turn their capitals to dust like you did to Hiroshima and Nagasaki._ The voice in his head, in case it wins. "Ghosts," he settled. Harmless. The very opposite of you.

Then again, even ghosts weren't harmless. Canada, his gentler, more likable, his older brother that everyone loved, could be as ruthless and cold as Russia. England, France, Spain, Prussia were like him too, once. Mighty empires with an unquenchable bloodlust. So was he.

_NO_. The voice came at him with such a vengeance he almost jumped. _You are nothing like Russia. You are the savior of Europe, while Russia let it fall to ruins._ But Cuba, Guatemala, Vietnam and the list went on and on and on—

If he really was the same as Russia, then what was the point of anything? This Cold War—a misnomer, really, ignoring the streams of hot blood that soaked into oceans and lakes wherever his men landed—was for nothing. All those nights spent staring at the sky, asking himself every time something so much as moved; has it come? Is it my turn to be blown up?—was for _nothing_.

"Hey," the girl said, tugging at his sleeve. America snapped out of his reverie, apparently having dazed off into the distance. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He had an hour or so before the pills and alcohol started kicking in. He wasn't particularly worried about the time; he knew the woods like the back of his hand. Besides, there were bigger things to worry about than where he fell asleep tonight. "C'mon, we need to get you home."

_Let's go home._

He lead the girl through the woods, her small legs having trouble keeping up. He asked her on multiple occasions if he wanted her to carry him, but she shook her head every time. She seemed to want to keep her distance, but America couldn't figure out why. Was it the gun still bothering her, perhaps?

He could see the roofs of the houses up ahead. They reminded him of his days spent in the west, just after his civil war. He needed to get away from the politics and the constant smell of blood that followed him wherever he went. There, the only that existed were the plains, his horse, and him. It was so simple. He had tried to replicate that same peace in the 30's, and it worked, for a while. But there was always something restless in his veins, like once he had gotten a taste of international warfare, he couldn't forget it. A deadly addiction, making the countries that had once belittled him bow before him, begging for mercy.

"Fredka,"

America's hand flew to his gun, the voice in his head singing _I told you so, I told you she was a spy_ —and Russia was there where the girl was, with his perpetual smile and his pipe, only it wasn't a pipe, it was a nuclear missile, a bloodred nuclear missile with bodies strewn around him, _oh god oh god how could you be so stupid you idiot shoot him before he shoots you_ — He whipped out his gun at aimed it at Russia's head. How quickly could he shoot Russia and get away? How quickly would Russia recover?

A terrified squeak pulled the rug from underneath him. Russia—no, the little girl, oh god he aimed a gun at his own citizen, on a little girl—ran in the opposite direction, her white shirt fluttering like a flag of surrender. America watched her go, because what could he do?

Was he going insane? Sometimes he felt he was the lone ship in a sea of madness, but maybe he was being carried along with the tide anyway. The voice seemed eager to steer him towards a storm from which he would never escape. The only question was: when would the storm hit?

No, the right question was: when would he be blown up? Would it be Russia? Or would he drop from the precipice he was clinging to with his fingertips, into the abyss of insanity below? Would he fall like all the empires before him, with everyone he once called his allies laughed from above?

_Shut up_ , the voice told him. _Get up and get it together. You are not going to fall, you are going to be powerful for years to come. You will show them all that you are here to stay._

The voice was an eternal paradox, both the source of his insanity and the only one that made him feel like himself. How he loathed it; and at the same time, how he loved it.

He turned on his heel and started walking towards the pond. He had a meeting tomorrow, and he was going to need coffee, especially after the pills. He was going to need the sleep, too. The little girl's face was going away anytime soon. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... I have no idea WTF happened. This was just going to be a short story pointing out the parallels between America and Russia during the Cold War, but it somehow ended up as an angst dump about insanity and voices. Oops.


End file.
